


take me out of this frozen season

by eldee



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: M/M, Yuletide 2009
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 19:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldee/pseuds/eldee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a year later, and the Hard Core Logo documentary is about to be released. Billy doesn't want to watch it, but isn't really given another choice. (Spoilers for movie.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	take me out of this frozen season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yakbite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yakbite/gifts).



> Title of story a line from a Hard Core Logo song in the movie.
> 
> Happy holidays, yakbite, I hope you enjoy! Thank you to sionnain for the beta!

It's almost been a year since Joe died. One year, minus a month.

Billy doesn't open the brown paper package sent to him. He knows Bruce had it find its way to him through Ed.

Billy doesn't open it, not at first, but he knows exactly what it is.

The documentary of _Hard Core Logo_. Not released to the general public yet - Bruce is being poetic or some shit like that, and is waiting until the anniversary, but Billy's allowed a sneak peek. He's already refused going to a private screening, more than once. He wonders if Ed watched it first, before getting it to him, but probably not - he heard from Pipe that Ed will have a shit-fit when he sees it.

So it's there, the video tape wrapped in its brown paper, Billy's name written scrawled across the front. It travels with Billy for a week while he's on tour with _Jenifur_. He doesn't watch it, using the excuse that his hotel rooms don't always have VCRs, though in the back of his mind, he knows that calling down to the front desk will produce one nearly immediately. He's tired and exhausted but on a performance (and otherwise) high most the time, and it's just not something that he wants to deal with right now. He hasn't wanted to for nearly a year, and he probably won't any time soon.

But he always makes sure it's in his bag, tucked neatly between plaid shirts and torn jeans. He checks it, every time he goes into the bag, to make sure it's still there.

***

It's a new city, a new gig, and _Jenifur_ rocks the house like usual. The fans scream the lyrics at the top of their lungs, and throw their bodies and heads around. The venue is a good, decent size, and equipped with lights and a state of the art sound system, providing for an awesome show. It's electrifying, and the crowd eats it up, and the band is on top of their game.

This is what Billy has always wanted. It wasn't like this, before. Not in the same loud, we've-made-it rock star sort of way.

But backstage. Backstage after the show is always different than it used to be.

He doesn't know the members of _Jenifur_ the same way. They'd all clap backs, give high fives, congratulate each other on a good show. They get along well enough, but they aren't friends, they aren't family. They aren't hard core like that.

Billy schmoozes with the reporters, answers now-familiar questions, over and over, and these people here in the States don't know to ask about Joe - not yet, anyway, maybe after the release. Right now, they're much more interested in how his custody battle is going, when _Jenifur_ is going back into the studio to cut a new album, even his dating status. He drinks his whiskey, answers in his vague yet wordy style, lips quirked in a half grin, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. His eyes don't shine in the same way they used to, but they don't know that.

There's a couple of groupies that follow him around, show to show. They remind him of Mary and the problems he has now. Billy slips into the bathroom, swallows back a few pills, chasing them with the tumbler full of whiskey. He sets it on the edge of the sink and stares at himself in the mirror, ignoring how tired he looks, how strung out, in a way he never used to. He splashes cold water on his face, knocking the tumbler to the floor with a loud crash. He stares at the broken glass, but leaves without picking it up. He finds the girls again, flirts and touches and offers whispered words into their ears.

He acts like the rock star he is, except for taking them back to his room.

Tonight, he goes back alone.

***

Billy collapses onto the bed, the only light in the room being from the dim streetlights that edge in around the drawn curtain. He lights a smoke and stares up at the ceiling through the dimness. He's tired, but restless, and he should've brought those girls, at least one, back to fuck out some tension. But he didn't, and now he's alone.

From the corner of the room, from the darkness, he hears it. "Watch it, Billiam."

Billy sits up with a start, head whips to the side, eyes wide and peering across the room. Only one person in the world ever calls - called - him that. He gets out of bed slowly, walking closer to where he swears he heard the words come from. He flicks on the light, but of course there's nothing there. _Of course_ there isn't.

Billy barks out a low, rough chuckle. He scrubs a shaky hand through his hair, and mutters to himself, "You're losing it, Billy." He must be more fucked up than he thought.

That doesn't stop him from grabbing the bottle of vodka from the top of the dresser, twisting off the cap, and taking a deep swig as he chugs it back. He pulls it away from his lips with a suctioned _pop_. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and gives a full body shudder.

No fucking way. Just... no.

And, still, as he turns to flick off the light again, he notices the VCR propped on top of the television. He doesn't remember it before, but he'd only been in the hotel a few minutes before being rushed to the sound check, so maybe it was always there.

He takes another swig, flicks off the light, and crawls back into bed. He ignores his bag pushed against the far wall, and turns his back to the television and the traitorous VCR.

Billy goes to sleep, because really, it's the only escape he usually has.

***

Billy thought, after all the years - especially the last - that he'd have a stomach of steel by now. He really should know better.

It's lucky for him that _Jenifur_ has the next day off, a break in the hard schedule of life on the road. They get to sleep in and rest, at least for a few hours later than usual. It's much easier being hung over in a hotel room then on a bus.

Billy wakes up late in the morning, and rolls out of bed. He stumbles to the bathroom, kneels in front of the toilet, and pukes his fucking guts out.

Fuck those last swigs of vodka. Fuck stupid Joe Dick and his disembodied voice deciding to appear during Billy's drunken, high stupor. It's all Joe's fault Billy is knelt on the floor, praying to the porcelain gods.

When his stomach settles a bit, Billy turns on the shower, letting the water run hot before he gets in. The water nearly scalds him, turning his pale skin a bright red, heating him to the core. It feels great, the warmth washing over him, and he stands in there, one hand braced against the wall as the water hits his head and slides down his back. He doesn't get out until the water starts to run cooler and it's not as great anymore. It feels like he's losing something.

He wraps a towel around his waist and walks into the main room, and he very nearly shits himself when he sees who's there.

Joe sits in the one chair off to the side of the room. His legs are thrown over the arm, ankles crossed, big combat boots lazily waving through the air. He's leaning back against the other arm, staring up at the ceiling, one hand dangling down towards the floor with a cigarette between two fingers. As Billy stares at him in disbelief and horror, Joe just blew smoke circles into the air.

Joe lazily turns his head to look at Billy, looking him up and down. "Billiam," he greets, a wide smile. "Must be fucking cold."

"Must be fucking _high_," Billy mutters, trying to shake it away.

Joe laughs. "Still? Can't handle it in your old age, Billy boy? You _are_ thirty-five now. Almost thirty-six, old man."

"Fuck you," Billy scowls, grabbing a pair of sweats from the floor and pulling them on. He ties the drawstring; they seem bigger then they used to. "Why are you here, Joe?"

And he's amazed at himself for even asking that question, amazed that he's talking to a dead man. Because as much as Billy hates thinking about it, Joe _is_ dead. He almost laughs at himself, because this is so fucking stupid and insane. But, he's curious too. Curious and _insane_. He might have to give John a call, see if this is what it feels like.

"You know the answer to that," Joe says, watching as Billy rummages around in his bag for a shirt. Instead, he ends up pulling out that dreaded brown package he's been ignoring for a week. Joe laughs, almost manically, thoroughly amused with Billy's find. "Exactly."

Billy just stares down at it, turning it over and over in his hands, and then rubs his thumb across his name. He raises an eyebrow at Joe. "You wanna watch this?"

In a sudden movement, Joe swings his legs around, feet coming heavily to the ground. He hunches forward, elbows rested on his knees, fingers steepled downwards towards the ground. There's a glint to his eyes, excited and amused and arrogant. "It's a tribute to me!" Joe exclaims, laughing more.

Billy gives him an unimpressed smirk. He doesn't even need to say anything.

"Okay, okay," Joe holds his hands up in front of him in mock defense. "It's about us. Hard Core Logo." His head tilts to the side, eyes watching Billy intensely, as a million times before. His voice drops, serious, "It's the last thing I've got to give to this world, Bill. The least you could fucking do is watch it. You know it's all about you anyway. It always is."

"Fuck you, Joe," Billy says, throwing the tape back into the bag with disgust. That isn't what he wants to hear. Joe is - was - an arrogant, egotistical asshole and everything was always about _him._ Always.

Billy's about to tell Joe exactly that, but when he looks up, Billy's alone.

***

The next week is nothing but a blur. It should be because of buses and new cities and different venues and excited crowds and beautiful women and non-stop interviews. And that's a big part of it, but not all.

Mostly, Billy doesn't want to remember. He wants to live in some dream-world, some waking sleep where he coasts through the minutes and hours and days without a care in the world, just focusing on the music. The music of now. The rest needs to be left behind and he doesn't want to think about it.

He drinks booze and pops pills and smokes dope. He still sticks to his schedule, plays every show to perfection, and even charms the press he speaks too. He doesn't fuck up, but he's fucked up - hard lessons learned from Joe and the rest of Hard Core Logo, but he's perfected it. He doesn't let it rule him, he doesn't.

This is what it is to be a rock star.

"So fuck you, Joe," he says at one point. _A big fuck-you to you, Joe, 'cause I know how to be a rock star and you just couldn't handle it._

The groupie he's pushed up against leans back with a raised eyebrow that says _What the fuck?_ But he quickly distracts her with a flick of his tongue and squeeze of his hand in just the right place. He takes her back to his hotel room and fucks her senseless. She slinks out of the hotel room before he's even asleep, and he doesn't think twice about asking her to stay.

***

"Billy. Billy. Bill. Billy. Biiiiiiiiilly. Billy. Come on, Billiam. Billy. Bill. Billy."

Billy groans and rolls over, pulling his blanket tighter around his shoulders. "Joe," he says, voice thick with sleep. "Fuck off."

Joe always had this way of getting Billy's attention, even if Billy didn't want to give it. Even if it was when Billy was sleeping. All that was missing right now is Joe annoyingly poking his shoulder or his cheek or his forehead.

But. Joe couldn't do that anymore.

He shouldn't even be able to wake him up with his grating, whining voice, but he did this morning. Well, late afternoon.

"So this is what it's like to be a rock star?" Joe asks. Billy opens one eye, and sees a blurry Joe looking down at him. Joe stands up straight and takes a drag on his cigarette. He smirks, "Party hard all week and crash all day when you get one off? Where's the broad?"

"I'm sleeping," Billy says, but he rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. "You've done this too."

Joe laughs, shaking his head. "I never wasted time sleeping."

Billy nods. That much was true. Billy rolls over, placing his feet on the floor and sitting up. He grabs at a dirty grey t-shirt off the floor, slipping it on over his head. He looks around for some pants, but then shrugs - fuck it, boxers will have to do. Besides, it's just Joe, who doesn't really exist, even if he appears to. He takes a cigarette out of the pack on the bedside table and lights it. "What the fuck do you want, Joe?"

Joe is pacing the room, back and forth, back and forth, a bundle of energy that Billy can't even imagine having right now. "You know what I want, Billy. You know what I want."

"Man, what the fuck?" Billy asks. "Why?"

Joe pauses, and pokes a finger through the air towards Billy. "You need this too, man."

Billy doesn't say anything, just takes a drag of his cigarette.

"Billy, you ignored me for four years. Fucking suck it up and stop, you cunt."

Billy looks up and glares, finds Joe glaring back, and still doesn't say anything.

Joe shrugs, and gives that shit-eating grin of his. "I'll just stick around this time until you do."

"Fuck that shit," Billy says immediately, pushing himself off the bed. His joints crack and he stands up, hand on his lower back as he arches and stretches. "Fuck."

"Getting old, Billy boy. _I_, however, will always be young and hot."

"Fuck you," Billy grunts, leaving the cigarette in his mouth as he digs through his bag. He became so fucking pissed at the little brown package that he didn't give a shit about keeping it safely tucked in, just throwing his junk in roughly when moving from city to city. But always in the back of his mind, he knew it was there, and he couldn't throw it out or leave it behind. Not yet.

"This what you want?" Billy asks, holding up.

"Yes, that's what I want."

"This?"

"Fuck, yes."

"Will you leave me the fuck alone after we watch it?" Billy shakes his head, still can't grasp that he's having this conversation, that Joe was standing in his hotel room, looking exactly the same way he did the day he died, minus bruises, blood and bullet holes.

Billy knows he needs help, but no one could know this. Billy couldn't tell anyone, because they wouldn't believe him or they'd lock him up or he'd be doped up with drugs that weren't recreational.

And by the look on Joe's face, Joe knew that too. "Of course!"

Billy didn't believe him. But if this was one way of trying, then fine. Fine. He'd watch their fucking documentary with none other than Joe Dick.

***

Yeah, maybe Billy involuntarily grimaced when he finally removed the brown paper packaging, being forced to look at a picture of the Hard Core Logo band on the front of the tape, all official-like. But it was nothing compared to having to watch Joe, living and breathing and moving and singing.

Which is fucking stupid, because that's what Joe looks like now, sitting in the chair across the room from him. He looks perfectly alive, sitting on the edge of the seat, his right leg jiggling as he smokes his never-ending cigarette.

But Billy knows better. Billy knows that's just his fucked up head imagining Joe here. It's hard to admit to yourself that you're fucked up, but Billy's man enough to know that sitting in a hotel room, watching your former band's only documentary with your dead friend isn't exactly normal.

The Joe that's here isn't really here. The Joe on the television, that's the real Joe. The real Joe is gone, forever.

"Fuck," Billy breaths, taking a sip of whiskey.

Joe glances over his shoulder. "We're five minutes in," he says, smirking. He looks back at the television. "Lightweight."

"Fuck you."

Joe shrugs, and continues watching the television.

"You're such a douche," Billy comments, as the television Joe talks about the benefit for Bucky. Nobel looking at first, but everyone who knew Joe should've realized there was something else behind it.

Joe just laughs. "It got you back."

They both fall silent, because they both know that's a lie.

***

Billy turns off the tape at 16 min 20 seconds.

 

_After a certain age, it's hard to make friends. And I've known Joe since I was thirteen.   
And, uh.. I love- I love him more then anybody I know. That I've meant since."_  
\- Billy Tallent, _Hard Core Logo_

 

"Who's the douche?" Joe asks, smirk spread across his face.

"Shut up, Joe," Billy says, lighting another cigarette.

"Hey, at least I was man enough to tell you to your face, fucker."

"Shut _up_, Joe."

"Love you, Billiam."

"Joe-"

But when Billy turns to face him, his friend is gone.

Billy mutters, "Motherfucker."

***

It takes Billy a couple more weeks to get back to watching the documentary. He's busy, he tells himself, and that's not a lie. _Jenifur_ is wrapping up the end of a serious cross-country tour, and commercial success is finally coming in, bigger and better than ever before.

It's the last show of the tour, and Billy swears he sees Joe in the front of the mosh pit. He's standing there, hands in trench coat pockets, cigarette in mouth. He just stands there, untouched by everyone jumping around him, and stares at Billy. Billy tries to ignore him, but ends up sending him a cocky grin or two, playings rifts that don't belong in _Jenifur_'s songs but that belonged to _Hard Core_. No one seems to notice except for Joe, who finally throws his head back and laughs. Billy laughs too.

"You're going Grohl," Joe comments when Billy makes it back to his hotel room later that night. "What is that shit you guys play? There's nothing hard about it."

Billy laughs, and swaggers a little bit, leaning against the wall. "You shouldn't even know what that means." And he shouldn't because that's a very new development and real Joe wouldn't know about it. Real Joe was gone.

Joe smirks cockily. "I know _aaaaaaaaaaall_, Billy."

"Fuck you," he spats, and it's more at the Grohl comment. If Joe knows it right now it means because Billy knows it and fuck that, that's not what he thinks. But Joe would think that, if he could, so yeah.

Fuck. Billy's had a lot to drink tonight. He'd been doing better the last couple weeks, busy and more sober and Joe hasn't been around at all. But now he's here and Billy got drunk after seeing him, not before. Mostly; there's always pre-show drinking, but nothing like how he is now.

"I wanna watch more."

Billy shakes his head. "I don't."

"Billy," Joe says his name like a mock plea, one meant to persuade and manipulate. "Biiiilly!"

Billy leans against the wall, head resting back, eyes closed. "No, Joe."

"You do too."

Billy opens on eye, barely throwing a glance Joe's way. "What makes you think that?"

Joe smiles brightly, and laughs. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Billy nods. Yes. Joe is here. Billy finds the tape and pops it in, but not before popping something else first.

***

The room is dark, just the brightness of the television lighting the room. It's not the best film quality every, dull and grainy, but it has Joe and Billy and Hard Core Logo written all over it.

Billy settles on the edge of the bed, elbow propped on knee, head on fist. He rocks back and forth slightly. Joe stands slightly off to the side, bouncing on the balls of his feet. They don't say much to each other, aside from the random snide remark, mostly calling each other assholes and cunts - Joe for using Bucky and Billy that way, pulling the wool over their eyes, and Billy for being a sell-out punk who toyed with the rest of the band. But nothing is hard and biting and angry - it's as if they knew just how they are, as hard as it was to admit to themselves, they'd finally accepted it of each other.

They reach the scenes when Billy finds out he's _not_ in Jenifur, and he's piss drunk on stage. He's angry and stumbling around stage, resting his head against Joe's back. Joe is obviously annoyed and concerned and why didn't Billy just tell him?

"You could've told me, asshole."

Billy shrugs. He's not going to admit that to Joe. He's barely just admitted it to himself. But he thinks Joe knows anyway.

And, then: Mary the Fan.

Billy is watching the screen now, with rapt attention. "That fucker added them in?" he says aloud.

"Well, they're there, aren't they? Don't you have some big," Joe waves his hand around, "thing going on?"

Billy doesn't answer. He just watches himself meet his daughter for the first time, because otherwise, it's just too fuzzy in his brain and he doesn't really remember it well. He's only seen her twice since, but he's trying. He's really trying to be more of a dad, if only he'd be allowed.

"You'd probably have a better chance if you stayed sober, you know."

"Fuck off, Dick."

"You know I'm right."

"Shut the fuck up," Billy repeats. He doesn't want to hear Joe's chatter right now. He wants to watch. He finally wants to watch, and Joe won't shut the fuck up. Typical.

A couple minutes later, all he can do is breath out the word, "_Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck_."

He watches John, stupid fucking John, spreading gossip about Joe fucking Billy up the ass, and his theories over why Billy left the band.

Billy presses pause on the remote control, stilling the frame on Mary's face. Fuck. Just... fuck. This wasn't good.

"Gonna deny it in court?" Joe asks.

Billy growls, "Shut the fuck up."

Suddenly, Joe is sitting right next to Billy on the bed. He's not touching him, not at all, but Joe has this way of invading personal space without doing any touching at all. Billy keeps looking forward. He won't do it right now. He will not give in. There's not anything to give into. Well, not any more. Not really. Fuck.

"Well, that's not true, is it, Billy boy?" Joe asks, voice low and gravelly. "John's not telling the truth, is he?"

Billy doesn't say anything, just hangs his head. He could practically hear Joe's cheeks creak as a smile opens up wide.

"It's not the truth, because that wasn't the first time, was it?" Joe says. And he laughs. "But now people will know."

Billy turns to him, in anger or protest or loss, he's not entirely sure - but Joe's disappeared and he doesn't get his chance to express just how he felt about that whole thing.

He's not entirely sure he even knows himself.

***

_Anger only works for so long. You can only be angry for so long. And then you get, uh, well it's, it turns in on yourself.   
And you're a bitter man. You become Bitter Man, and that's no place to go. You know what I mean?_  
\-- Billy Tallent, _Hard Core Logo_

He's back in L.A., the tour over. They've got three weeks off before studio time is booked to start recording again. He doesn't have anything else booked for a week, nothing planned until he meets lawyers again about getting to see his girl Billie.

Billy decides he wants to stay sober. His lawyers suggested it months ago, but it makes sense now.

It's a hard, hard couple days, but he does it, cleans himself out the best he can. He's done it before, when he's had to, he can do it again. He dumps all his booze and flushes all the pills, goes into wicked withdrawl for a couple days where he wants to yell and scream and die. He swears he sees Joe standing in a corner encouraging him or maybe mocking him and trying to get him to break. He wants to, but fuck you Joe, it's not going to happen.

When it's mostly out of his system, he sleeps for a good three days, resting and recuperating. When he wakes up, it's like the world is a different place. He remembers it being this way before, but not for a long time. It's like a place he used to live, but left, and only visited once or twice since. Everything else has been a blur for a long time. It's time to see things clearly.

_Fuck you, Joe. I'm not going back. I'm not going down. Fuck you. I am better. I've always been better. I'll prove it._

***

He finally puts in the tape, and Billy swears to himself it's the final and last time and he'll make it all the way through. It seems even harder now, sober and facing it straight on.

Joe doesn't join him this time.

He watches the downward spiral. The visit to Bucky, the admission of the benefit lie, the acid trip (which Ed Festus is going to fucking kill him for getting caught on film doing that shit), and then Saskatoon.

He sees the plans they make together. Joe being a fucking man and telling Billy those words to his face. He had no idea that had been filmed, but now he has it forever, and Billy feels like a dick. Billy says them too, they're right there on this stupid fucking documentary, but Joe never got a chance to hear them before he died, that stupid motherfucker.

And then there is Edmonton.

Billy sees a lot now that he didn't see before. He sees how Joe is really the biggest fucking asshole of a guy who ever lived and was too fucking dependent on Billy for happiness. How Billy was lost in money and fame and a self-centered asshole (and still is, because he'd never want to give it up and, deep down, is glad he didn't.) How Billy fucked Joe over. How he made a big fucking mistake saying anything to Terry and letting the film crew hear about his contract offer. How Bruce fucked Billy _and_ Joe over, starting the ignition to the final fight. The final hour. The finale.

He sees now how he missed the signs, all along and so obvious in the movie or is that a trick of cinematography?

Billy sees it all now. And, soon, everyone else will be able to too.

He fucking screwed over Joe Dick, and lost his best friend. Good times and bad time and sexy times and angry times, that's what Joe Dick was - no, is - to him. He always thought Joe would be there if and when he needed him, and he completely missed all the signs that Joe showed he would be leaving for good if Billy couldn't reciprocate.

It's the final scene, he watches Joe sit on the steps and Billy just _knows_ it's the end now. He's been told about it a dozen times, explained to over and over how it happened. He read the newspaper articles, saw the Edmonton news the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. He read the obit. He visited the grave.

Billy knows this story, backwards and forwards. It's his story too.

But none of it compares to seeing the look on Joe's face right before he does it.

Joe was motionless on the ground, and a piercing shot goes through Billy's heart when Joe pulls the trigger. Billy slides off the couch and onto the floor. He sort of slumps over, going numb. He's been numb for a year now, but it was a different, self-induced numb. This is real, and it actually hurts like a fucking bitch.

He really wants a fucking drink right now. A joint. Some pills. Smack, even, though he's laid off that since Joe. Fucking anything. He wants it and it's punishment to himself that he won't allow himself to have it. No easy ways out. He's no fucking Joe Dick. _Fuck you, Joe Dick, fuck you for leaving._

He lights a cigarette, and sprawls out on the floor. The credits roll, the tape begins to automatically rewind once it hits the end, and the television turns to snow. Billy doesn't move to make the cringe-inducing noise go away. Instead, he lets it fill his ears.

Billy asks the smoke swirling up to the ceiling, "Why the fuck did you do it, Joe? You asshole. You fucking cunt. Why?"

Billy doesn't get an answer.

He's never going to.

But he knows.


End file.
